The Seamstress of Hulda Street(8-Chapter Challenge for @justwriteit)

Chapter Seven

Dressed in her most modest of dresses, black with no skin exposed, as if she was on her way to attend a funeral, Rose stared at her reflection in the mirror behind her love's enclosure. She had one more thing to do before she left for the interview for the nanny position.

Rose concentrated, thinking of a woman slightly older, several years at most, and said, 'Ego te convertam pluribus annis maior.' 

Shortly, the mirror rippled as it did the last time she had changed her appearance. The seamstress then watched as her hair lightened, turning blonde and fair, before her face narrowed to give a sense of sternness. However, her features quickly softened to portray love and caring, and her mouth thinned and dulled with prudishness yet remained inviting. 

'Yes, perfect for a nanny up to something, if I may say so,' Rose finally said to her transformed self, soon realizing a change of scent would probably be needed too. She added, 'Petala rosacea et chrysanthemuma.' 

Immediately, the seamstress' nose tickled with the aroma of roses and chrysanthemums, of her hidden identity and of joy and optimism. And after saying goodbye to her love, telling him what time she would return and hopefully with good news, Rose embraced the dark, cold and dreary morning, and set out for the residence of Mr Bronfell. 

Her journey took her far away from home and its grime and poverty, far away from the middle class neighborhoods of the city that she wandered now and again, and into the affluent areas, where women and men like Madame Calloway walked the streets as if they had sticks up their arses. And the place plumed and billowed with the stench of her goal. 

'Yes, there are many beasts belonging to packs here,' Rose said to herself. 

It was nearing eight o'clock when she entered Channing Lane, a street lined with the biggest houses she had ever seen. At the very end was Mr Bronfell's residence, where a queue of women waited to be interviewed, the row starting at the front door and ending halfway down the lane. 

'Hmm, there must be at least a hundred,' Rose muttered, as she then took in a whiff of Mr Bronfell himself, his scent mingled with the smoke swelling out from one of the mansion's many chimney tops. Despite the odor's smoldering degradation, Rose could tell the man was waiting too, inside, and he effused power. But there was also sadness and heartache scattered in the fumes. The seamstress lingered on the aroma before her attention returned to the women. 'Time to take care of this. Time to send them safely back home. Crassa nebula veni.' 

Out of nowhere, the thickest of hazes descended, rolled into the street like a cloud of ash. It was a mist so soupy, a disorienting, muddling and waywarding fog accustomed to only seafarers and travelers. And when it finally had all cleared, moved on just moments before the new hour approached, Rose found herself the only interviewee left. 

With a nod of approval, Rose then straightened herself and headed for Mr Bronfell's residence. And the very second she arrived at the front door, she heard the strike of a grandfather clock inside, it echoing and setting off plodding footfalls. Soon, the door opened, revealing the man. Rugged with a well-groomed beard and cheeks that appeared to be chiseled from wood, most would call him handsome, but Rose just saw his dispassion, his weariness and the wolf within. 

No smile greeted Rose, just a curt nod and a weak, 'Good morning. And good morning to everyone–' 

Mr Bronfell had looked past the seamstress and was now furrowing at the queue that was no longer there. 

'Excuse me,' he said to Rose, staring at her as if he had just come out of a trance. 'What happened to the other respondents?' 

'Other respondents?' Rose replied candidly.